


Hide & Seek

by AquaWolfGirl



Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Consensual Exhibitionism, F/M, Neighbors AU?, Oops There Are Feelings, Porn with some plot, consensual voyeurism, eventually, not entirely sure what to tag this
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-28
Updated: 2018-07-28
Packaged: 2019-06-17 13:22:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15462303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AquaWolfGirl/pseuds/AquaWolfGirl
Summary: Artist Poe Dameron has just moved into his new apartment. It's not a great place; a little dingy, a little dirty, a little small. But it's all his, and it's close to his studio, and he was never one for material things anyway. He doesn't realize how much of a score the low-rent one bedroom-one bath is though, until he sees his neighbor across the way. What starts out as a game between the two becomes a challenge, and then becomes an obsession, and then becomes more. Elements of voyeurism and exhibitionism, be forewarned (all consensual, I promise.)





	Hide & Seek

**Author's Note:**

> I've had this idea in my head for a while, and hopped between different pairings before I finally decided upon this one. I don't know, I just love their dynamic, and I like the idea of Holdo totally owning the situation like the badass she is. Expect some lavish descriptions of lingerie, a little exhibitionism, a heavy dose of humor and dirty talk, and a sprinkling of feelings. Hope you enjoy!  
> WARNING: Google told me that voyeurism is specifically getting sexual pleasure from watching someone, and that's not what this is at all, but this chapter has some I guess watch-y elements? Nothing explicit or anything, but figured it's worth a warning just in case people are disturbed by that.

The apartment’s … decent. 

He’s not going to say it’s a good apartment, not really. The rent is good. The location is good, being near his studio. That’s … honestly, that’s pretty much is all that’s good about it. He already knows he’ll have to deep-clean the entire place, bits of grime around the faucet of the kitchen sink, the tile grout a dull cream that probably used to be white at some point, but now is no longer anything resembling it. 

_Welcome home,_ Poe thinks as he props the door open, looking around. The first key he was given stuck in the lock, and was a little bit bent where the shoulder met the bow. The second key worked, thankfully. Or as thankful as he can be when facing the small one bedroom, one bathroom apartment. 

At least he doesn’t have a roommate, he guesses, setting the first of probably a dozen boxes down to help prop open the door. The hardwood floors creak a little beneath his feet, but he knew that when he saw the place for the first time. What furniture that was there during the tour is now gone, and it makes the apartment look so much bigger than it actually is. He knows that when he puts his bookshelf in, and his couch, and his tables, and everything he has waiting for him to pick up at various stores, it’ll look a hell of a lot smaller. 

Still, it’s an apartment. And it’s better than the small closet-like place he shared with three other roommates and four cats. It’s all his. Rented with his own money, from selling his own paintings. All his. All his own.

He can’t help but grin, running his hand through his dark curls and looking around. Sure, the floors need a good waxing or something, and the tile needs some scrubbing, but there are no water leaks, and the shower’s a decent pressure, and he can make this work. He can definitely make this work. 

The mid April chill helps somewhat, the cool air slipping through his white t-shirt and drying the sweat on his back as he hauls boxes back and forth. He thanks every deity he can think of that the elevator’s working, and by four in the afternoon, he’s standing in the middle of the apartment and wondering which bag has the sodas he bought. 

The drink’s not cold, no, but the cane sugar Coke he splurged on as a move-in treat bubbles against his tongue, and refreshes him just enough as he walks towards the windows. 

“Not much of a view,” Poe mutters against the lip of the bottle, looking across the small alleyway at the other building. Looking down, a car could perhaps squeeze its way through the little street, but it doesn’t look like there will be any trucks or anything. Good. No loud beeping and grinding at 4 in the morning, like at his last apartment. And hopefully no terribly loud neighbors, either, but he’s not going to push his luck.

The window of the apartment next to him is uncovered. He doesn’t see any blinds, but he can see the edge of creamy, frothy curtains – not lacy, no, but the kind of fabric he thinks wedding dresses are made out of. Maybe. Probably.

From his living room window, he can see into the living space of his neighbor. He thinks the term ‘living space’ is used fairly loosely. The building next to his is far grander than his is. He has the jalopy while the woman next to him has a Rolls Royce. He thinks the only reason this little building has survived the boom of luxury around it is because the landlord’s a piece of work in the best way possible; Maz may not have splurged on the best cleaning service, or the best keymaker, no, but she’s giving him a great deal on the rent, and that’s all he really needs. 

Looking through the window, he can see the open-concept living room, dining room, and kitchen combination. He can see the kitchen the best, seeing the large marble-topped island from the side, white stools tucked beneath the lip. To the left he can see the beginnings of a dining room set, just the edge, and beyond that he can see a living room. 

His new neighbor’s a woman, he decides, taking a sip of his Coke and observing the pristine, near show-house cleanliness. Or perhaps it’s a man. There’s no reason to be judgmental, he certainly shouldn’t be. He does like the look of that lilac-purple chaise lounge with the white pillow on it, one of the few pieces of living room furniture he can see clearly. It’s a hell of a lot classier than his cheap put-it-together furniture, he can pretty much guarantee. 

Humming, he observes the lack of turned-on lamps. Then again, the sunlight streaming in from a set of windows he can’t see illuminates the room just fine. His apartment is far dimmer. Or at least the living space is. His bedroom has a few more windows facing the street, but they’re smaller, grimier.

He finishes the Coke and rinses the bottle out, peeling the label off so that he can maybe use the bottle as a vase or some shit like that. 

He doesn’t see his neighbor that night. He treats himself to a just-moved-in meal at the pub down the street, and by the time he returns to his apartment, the living space across the way is dark, not a single lamp lit. 

-

“Thanks so much, yeah, you too," Poe says, pressing a fifty into the delivery man's hand with a grin. "I really appreciate it."

The room he rented came with furniture. He didn’t realize what a blessing that was until, well, he had to buy all the furniture. And put it together. At least he had it delivered, though. That was money incredibly well spent.

The bed is his first priority. Is it the most expensive bed? Hell no. But it’s a far cry from the futon he was sleeping on before, and to slide the new mattress into place and then collapse onto it is one of the best feelings. Of course, it wasn’t without some trial and error, and laying the slats the wrong way, and not realizing how to slide the drawers into the bottom of the bed, and accidentally screwing in the headboard backwards – but hey, he has a bed. 

And a few hours later, he has a bookshelf. It’s strange to see his ratty old sketchbooks on the dark wood shelf; it feels so much more … nostalgic, or something. His calloused fingers brush the spines, spiral bound and traditionally bound and held together with binder clips and a little faith. He’ll look through them, some day, see if he can turn any of them into something. But for now, he carefully props them up before indulging in ordering pizza. 

It’s past 7 when he sees her. The pizza box is empty on top of the few boxes that are serving as a coffee table, his white t-shirt stained with greasy orange fingerprints as he works on the frame for what will eventually be a nice dark grey sectional. For now, though, it’s a lot of wood and metal and way, way too many screws and knobs and shit. 

Sweat is dripping down his temples by the time he decides to stand and get some water. He hasn’t looked up in ages, which is probably how he missed the warm light coming from the apartment across the way. 

It’s a woman, just like he first assumed. He can see her standing at the white marble-topped island, her head lowered and her slender hands cutting something on a cutting board. Her long, lean figure is absolutely striking, but more striking is the fact that her hair matches the chaise lounge he admired. 

He can’t see her face, because her hair falls in curled curtains around it. An interesting choice. Sure, this is New York, he’s seen a lot of things, but a woman radiating that amount of wealth and elegance with lilac hair? Well, he didn’t think it was impossible, really, because he didn’t think about it at all before now. But she manages to pull it off well. Very, very well. 

By the time he tosses his pizza box into the trash, and returns to the sectional pieces, she’s at the stove. He can see now that her body’s wrapped up in a nice dress shirt, trendy if the tied waist is anything to go by, and leggings. Brown suede leggings. He can’t see if she’s wearing shoes or not. He can see her hands as she stirs something in a skillet, adding ingredients one at a time before stirring again. 

Cooking. That’s right, that’s a thing he should do. Once he figures out where he packed his kitchen stuff, that is. What little of it he has. Right. He should go buy things, probably. Pots. Pans. Those are things he needs. Oops.

He looks away, not wanting to snoop too much, and goes back down onto his knees, grunting as he grabs the drill again. He can’t see her from where he’s sitting on the floor to finish building the sectional. The windows are too high. 

-

Morning comes with a to-do list. Buy pots and pans and utensils and other essential kitchen things. Finish building the sofa. Try to build the dresser. Buy actual food instead of ordering take-out again. (It’s the last thing on his list, and perhaps the least in terms of priority, but it is somewhat important.) After that comes emailing clients and checking in with Leia on the specs of the gallery opening. 

It’s … it’s going to be a long day, to say the least. 

He tries to make something somewhat similar to coffee, scruffy and bleary-eyed as he walks towards the window. It’s not like he has a great view or anything, he thinks, humming as he sips the mediocre attempt at caffeine. Her curtains are probably closed, but it’ll give him something to look at that isn’t a blank brick-

Well, _fuck._

Long legs wrapped in skin-tight suede leggings are one thing. Long, bare, smooth legs are a completely different situation, and he wishes he had his newsprint pad and a bit of graphite in his hand instead of a cup of shit coffee. 

The robe his neighbor is wearing trails behind her as she walks, some silky embroidered thing that probably cost a pretty penny. It’s a soft, pure purple, bluer than her hair, reminding him of the lavender his mother used to dry and put in her tea to calm the aches and pains towards the end of her life. The short slip she’s wearing matches the robe exactly, the cream thread embroidered edge hitting her upper thigh. She’s barefoot, he can see it now that she’s standing more in the living room part than the kitchen, and he watches as she grabs a book and falls into the chaise lounge with all the grace of a dancer. It wouldn’t be out of the question, he thinks, watching her as she brings her legs up, tucking them beside her. With that body? It’s possible. Ballet or something, maybe.

His fingers itch to grab some kind of paper, to grab some kind of ink or pencil or charcoal nub, but it’s either all packed, or all at his studio. He could draw on the discarded cardboard of the unpacked boxes, sure, but he has nothing to draw with. The coffee is too weak, too pale to act as an ink, and even then he has no brush. 

Still. What he wouldn’t give to immortalize those slender legs, the way her hands grip the book, the way her head tilts and the way the waves of her hair fall just so. 

Inspiration is everywhere, he supposes, taking a sip of his coffee before looking down at the half-built sectional, and the rest of the boxes he has to open that contain his other bookshelves, his coffee table, his dresser, his dining room table, his chairs…

… perhaps getting a coffee maker first is a better idea. 

-

He doesn’t see _her_ for the rest of the day, and perhaps that’s a good thing. He spent way too many moments thinking about the curl of her hair, how it was looser than the night before, softer, almost. He’s being really fucking creepy, he’s sure of it, but he’s not a stalker, he’s really not. He just so happens to be an artist who finds a muse in everyone and an inspiration in everything. 

“Any nibbles on 42?” he asks.

“No, but there’s been an offer on 78.” 

Poe tucks his brush between his teeth, looking down at the shadows of the veil. No, no, that’s not right, it needs more warmth, it needs more brown … “And?”

“And they offered 100 less than what it’s tagged. I said no.”

Leia sounds so chuffed about it, and Poe chuckles, dipping the brush into the palette and sweeping it across the little shadow he’s trying to paint. “You truly are incredible.”

“We’ll see what they say. If they really want it, they’ll pay the four hundred.”

“And if they don’t, there’s someone who will,” Poe mumbles as he steps back, observing the shadow he just painted over. Damn, now it’s too warm… 

“That’s right.” Leia’s voice is warm. “How’s our princess?”

“Being a right bitch. I finally finished the pearls yesterday. Her veil is not cooperating.”

“It’ll work out. It always does.”

Always so optimistic, always so hopeful. “Yes, it does,” he says. Hell, he’s gotten this far, he might as well finish, make something out of it. “Friday at 12:30, right?”

“Friday at 12:30. Don’t be late, Dameron.”

“Oh, come on, that was once,” he tries, speaking around the handle of the brush, but she’s already hung up. 

-

While there are plenty of collectors who desire a more modern, abstract approach, he’s found his niche in the style of masters long gone. “The new Raphael,” Leia says often, beaming with pride as she shows his work in galleries all over New York. It’s a fine life. He’s not a new master, of that he’s sure, but he enjoys their style, enjoys seeing people all over the world fawn over his paintings and how they reflect the world that once was. He’s a huge fan of the political and controversial works of today, and appreciates how far the world has come, of course, but he can understand the want for soft colors and great detail and some good old chiaroscuro.

The fact that he sees his paintings in décor magazines, some manors in Europe even using them as gallery wall pieces, though – well, that’s always incredible, and flattering.

He comes back from working on his newest piece covered in oil paint. Perhaps it says something about him, that his work can be so meticulously detailed down to the smallest highlight of the smallest pearl, but he’s a goddamn mess. His jeans are streaked with white, his clothes smelling of stale sweat and turpentine as he walks into his apartment. It’s far from finished - he barely has groceries and he hasn’t even finished the sectional, yet, but he changes into non-paint-covered clothes and collapses onto said sectional, not even bothering to turn a light on in his exhaustion.

He’s glad he doesn’t. Because it means he can sit in the darkness and look to his left, and see her through the window more clearly. The lights of her apartment are far warmer in tone than his are, surrounding her in golden light. He should feel guilty for looking, he knows, but it's not like the room is her bathroom, or her bedroom. She's just sitting, cooking, reading, living her beautiful high-class life. 

She’s closer than she’s ever been. He thought she was young – he can see now that that’s not the case. She’s not old, not by any means, but she’s older than he is, he’s willing to bet. Sipping tea at the island counter, slender fingers wrapped around an antique tea cup, her other hand flipping through a magazine of some sorts. He watches as she drinks, lips finding the delicate edge of the mug, her hair in the same tight waves she had the first day he saw her. 

There is no such thing as a classic beauty, in his opinion. Beauty, at least in terms of people, changes with time, with fashion, with trends. There is natural beauty in flowers, in seashells, in leaves and feathers and things like that. But as a scholar of the masters, and as an artist, he knows that beauty is ever-changing, and is also a matter of opinion. 

In his opinion, he thinks, watching the woman as she turns another page, her head tilting ever so slightly, allowing him to see the sharpness of her jaw, she is _beautiful._

Later, after he’s showered the smell of the studio away and comes out to make something that resembles dinner, he sees that the frothy curtains are closed. But through the thin cream fabric he can see her silhouette, can see the way her silk robe flows behind her, her graceful hand as she turns off the last light and leaves him to stare into the darkness of the alleyway.

He really needs to unpack his sketchbook.


End file.
